


Dragon Age Yule Logs

by IntrovertedWife



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Christmas, Dragon4geDay, Embedded Video, F/F, F/M, Fireplaces, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Short One Shot, Sweet, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Winter, Yule
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-06 11:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16831402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntrovertedWife/pseuds/IntrovertedWife
Summary: For the holidays, I have a gift to you in the form of ten 20-minute yule logs each themed around a different Dragon Age Companion.There's also quick little stories to go with, but I mostly want you sit back and relax enjoying the yule log fireplaces I made.





	1. Cullen's Yule Log

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGoat/gifts), [nlans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nlans/gifts), [Ms_Saboteur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Saboteur/gifts), [Space_aged](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_aged/gifts), [zimafreak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zimafreak/gifts), [Riana1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riana1/gifts), [LilithRevised](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilithRevised/gifts), [Atodd8200](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atodd8200/gifts), [Beckily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beckily/gifts).



Embers twirl on a breath of wind, sweeping upward towards freedom. A crack pops from the fire as a log tumbles in on itself, your eyes drawn to the burst of ash. But you need not worry about sparks escaping to burn up your socked feet, this sanctuary is well protected.

“Dragon attack?” you ask, leaning back against the couch. Furs snuggle against not only your skin but is shared around the arms supporting you.

“No,” Cullen sighs, his firelight eyes closed as he takes in a cleansing breath. Even another pop of the logs burning to cinder in his fireplace didn’t rouse him.

“An invasion of the Avvar?” you try again.

That gets a single crack of his weary eyes, a curious look rolling to find yours. Flames dance in his amber gaze, Cullen’s slack lips lifting in an almost smirk. “Is there one I should be aware of?”

“I don’t think so…”

A chuckle rumbles up his chest to vibrate against your ribs and the cheek pressing to him. “Then no,” he says.

Blowing your hair from your eyes, you snuggle closer, the intoxicating scent of his body — oak, embers, and wine — burrowing into your soul. “There must be some pressing matter you have to rush off to.”

Arms slide around your stomach, pinning you so tight to his skin you’re nearly one. A chin nestles against the nape of your neck and, with the touch of his breath parting your lips, Cullen whispers, “I’m precisely where I’m meant to be.”


	2. Alistair's Yule Log

A man of bows and bells, of holly and ivy, of gingerbread and frosting paces around the rug leaving the jolliest mess in his wake. You lean beside the tree watching as he poses before the hearth, his head tossed back, firelight illuminating that ski-slope of his nose. He seems to nearly reach a conclusion before resuming his pacing.

“Alistair,” you call, hoping to either catch his attention or get him focused in the right direction.

Sparkling eyes dart up, a smile crafted only for you darting about his lips. “Hello darling,” he purrs, “come to see how talented your beau is at this holiday creation miracle? I dare say I’ve quite bested the foe!” For a laugh, he hefts up a half-empty roll of wrapping paper and pretends to duel thin air. The slumbering dog at his feet cocks an ear up, but won’t be wrested from her slumber.

“You’ve been in here for hours, what’s going on?” you ask, doing your best to not stare in horror at the slopes of glitter threatening to avalanche all over the carpet.

“Well, let’s see. First I had to get something for Wynne, cozy slippers with kittens on ‘em. What do you think?”

“She’ll rip you alive.”

“I know, they’re adorable,” Alistair squeals, rubbing the soft slippers against his cheek before returning them to the bag, “Oghren, mouthwash…”

“Which he’ll drink.”

“…And body spray.”

“Which he’ll also drink,” you laugh, easily pulled into his exuberant thrall.

“Shale, a collection of rocks,” he dug through the boxes that were nearly finished in the wrapping process in order to show off, “Leliana a combination brush, fire starter, and dagger.”

“They have those?” you gasp, wanting to see but Alistair’s too quick and drops it back in the sea of tissue paper.

“Zevran, a box of condoms and a pair of baby booties,” he holds up both in his hands, his cheeky grin and dancing eyes darting from one to the other. “That way he’s prepared for either eventuality.”

After returning the less-than-gentle jab at their lusty Crow’s gift to its bag, Alistair lifts up a small box usually meant to hold a necklace. He rests it upon the back of his palm as he says, “And for Morrigan.” Yanking the box away he reveals his middle finger firmly extended with nary another in sight. “Gift wrapped and everything. This one’s straight from the heart.”

Laughing at his ingenuity and certainty to get under everyone’s skin, you wrap your arms around his neck but he’s too consumed with the gifts to notice your attempted kiss. “I think that’s just about everybody. Got Teagan that silver tea set, Eamon something really expensive and heavy.”

“A gold plated door jamb?”

“What says fancier-than-a-cake-with-lace-petticoats than a hunk of metal that weighs more than a Qunari?” His sparkling eyes land in yours, Alistair finally ceasing in his boundless energy to hone in on your arms. “That just leaves…Andraste’s knicker weasels!”

His curse rebounds about the room, knocking off the ashen logs, and causing the slumbering dog to finally rise. Head crashing to his chest, Alistair mumbles under his breath, “You.”

“Oh Ali,” you whisper, gliding your hips flush against his, pulling his arms around your waist. “All I want from you is…” You lean closer, your lips so near to his you can taste the heat off his worried mouth, “a single red rose.”

He smiles, his voice dropping low as he curls a hand to your cheek. “I can handle that,” he whispers before kissing you above the mistletoe.


	3. Solas' Fire

With breath wrung from your lungs, you give a final blow and watch the sparks you were babying grow. They catch upon not only the kindling, but spread out across the logs you struggled to keep dry as the snow kicked up. With a smile of pride, you lean back from the rising flames when the chill of the mountain wraps across your body.

Trembling in your leathers while praying to the Creators for the flames to heat you up already, from behind a blanket wraps around your shoulders. You turn in surprise to find Solas’ hand sliding away off of his kind gift. But, just before he releases the wool, his fingers drum against your shoulder as if he wished he could remain.

It is you who snags his hand, pinning it in place against your warming shoulders, and Solas’ staunch armor shatters. He folds to his knees behind you, the protective presence of his chest nearly glancing against your spine as you both stare into the flames.

Despite the unending chill of the wintering mountain, you feel only warmth in his fingers as if he isn’t even touched by the cold. Even with your eyes upon the fire rising to the sky, you can sense Solas’ gaze from the periphery. With a snort, you sigh, “Your magic could have started this much faster and easier.”

“Perhaps,” he whispers. You give up on pinning his hand to your shoulder, prepared to let him flee back to his pallet, but he remains. With a soft swirl, his left hand glides over your stomach, Solas pulling himself to you.

His breath barely above the roar of the winds, he whispers, “But yours is warmer.”


	4. Fenris' Fireplace

“It’s really coming down out there,” you exclaim while staring through the filthy window. “At least I think so,” you tack on, uncertain if it’s really snow or just a pile of dust raining down from his mansion.

A sort-of snort grumble rolls out of Fenris and you turn to find him bent clean over and nearly inside the charred fireplace. Flames erupt out of a box in his hands, quickly rolling across a tree he stole from a small park in Hightown. Just before you reach to grab the edge of his armor and yank him out of the path of death, he steps back. Spring green eyes stare into yours, confusion at how close you dashed to his side evident.

Heat from embarrassment instead of flames chars your cheeks and you try to slide away. Fenris pockets his non-magical firespark and grunts, “Smelt of snow for days.”

“Yeah, the weather mages were droning on and on and on about the storm. Sounded bad.”

A low growl thunders from him at your use of the M-word, but as the sneer fades it’s replaced by both uncertainty and concern. Fenris worries his fingers through his hair, the snow-white locks parting like rushing rapids. “I thought that, hoped…considering the threat of the storm it seemed wiser for you to wait it out here. With me,” his voice practically purrs at the end, eyes begging.

“But,” Fenris shields himself in an instant, spinning around to grip to the mantle, eyes boring into the flames. “Your time is your own. I understand if…”

“Fenris,” you interrupt, finding your place on his couch. “I’d love to stay.”

He snorts in surprise, a smile rising on his lips as he joins you to stare into the fire together.


	5. Dorian Yule Log

Over the din of people conversing, wine sloshing against lapels, and a four-piece band you hear the gentle opening of a door. With a twist of your head, you catch the fading debonair backside vanishing inside. Excuses to the various dignitaries around you slip from your lips and you pursue him.

Placing a steadying hand to the door, you peer into a dark room with only a solitary fireplace casting light upon the subject. He’s undone the rather tight belt and draped it across the chair placed directly before the flames. With one leg dangling over the arm, he looks the part of nonchalance ease, but his mere existence in here confounds you.

After closing the door, Dorian seeming too lost in his thoughts to hear, you say, “Are you not due to be dancing upon the tables as inebriated widows cheer you on?”

That intoxicating laugh in the form of a solitary snort erupts from the still room. He doesn’t turn his handsome head, but does say in a joyful tone, “That doesn’t occur until after the Archon’s wife challenges the daughter of the Black Divine to a duel…in jellied ham.”

“I shall never get used to Tevinter parties,” you sigh, stepping deeper into the room. A solitary glass of red wine perches upon a footstool as if Dorian intends to drink it in peace, but he seems to have fully forgotten it. “Why are you really in here? I thought you preferred the pomp and celebration of such an endeavor.”

“Entertaining can be a delight, and often more deadly than stepping onto a battlefield…” He turns his stormy sea eyes upon you, stopping you in your tracks. “But I’ve found as of late that sometimes what I crave more than a strong drink and a whirl about the floor, is peace.”

“Then…” you begin to stagger back, “I should leave you be.”

A warm hand grabs yours, Dorian guiding you around the chair as if in a waltz. “Don’t be silly,” he chuckles, pulling you into his lap. As his nose glances against the back of your head, he whispers, “You are my peace, Amatus.”


End file.
